Dark Devotion: Dark Series 3

by Lauren Dawes

  “If you would just—”

  “What?” she interrupted sharply. “Leave? Be a coward?”

  “You wouldn’t be a coward,” Soren tried to reason. Tove had thought seriously about his request, and for half a minute she thought it was possible to simply disappear and leave her responsibilities behind. The only problem was that she knew her sense of obligation would eventually win out. Her mother had been a shield maiden – she had been honorable, and she was well known, beloved and respected for that honor. Tove wanted to be like her more than anything, and if that meant agreeing to an arranged marriage, then she would. After all it had worked out between her parents. Perhaps she could find a small measure of happiness with Floki.

  “I would be, Soren,” she replied, turning to face him. The golden glow of the fire illuminated half his face, making him look like a god of Asgard and a demon of Muspelheim at the same time. She touched his face, smoothing away the wrinkles on his forehead, trying to erase the scowl that had permanently set in the moment her father had told them about the betrothal. “I have to obey my father in this.”

  Soren’s normally kind brown eyes took on a sharp edge. “And what about me? What am I supposed to do, Tove? Celebrate your marriage? Wish you luck and a happy life together?” He surged to his feet, pacing along the skins they’d been lounging on. “Because I won’t do it. I can’t do it. The moment I see Floki, I will want to wrap my hands around his neck and squeeze the breath from his lungs.”

  Me too, she thought hopelessly. The worst part of this whole thing was that Soren would be left behind. Both of their hearts will be broken, but if she was honest, hers had broken the moment her father had told her she was to marry someone else. She had no choice; she was the chieftain’s only daughter. She sighed. “I should try to get some rest before tomorrow.”

  Soren stopped pacing and faced her. “You’re giving up on us.” He stated it so forcefully that she knew he believed it.

  “Never,” she whispered. “I’ll always love you – until my hearts stops beating, it will belong to you.”

  The fire crackled and hissed, embers shooting into the air as a log fell. Soren’s gaze fell onto the flames. “I won’t be there tomorrow. I won’t watch you give yourself to another.”

  No, no, no. He was her strength; his love was keeping her going, and would continue to keep her going through her life. But she wouldn’t tell him. She wanted him to have the freedom to choose – something she wasn’t able to do. “Okay.”

  “Okay?” he spat, raising his voice slightly.

  “What do you want me to do, Soren?” she asked, exasperated.

  Grasping her arms, he pulled her into his embrace. She melted into the feel of his strong chest, placing her ear against his ribs to listen to his heart. “I want you to leave this place. Tonight. Now. We’ll go west. I can take a boat and we can sail until we hit the shore of Northumbria.”

  Tove stayed quiet, absorbing every last second of her time with Soren. When she pulled away, she could see that he knew this was the end. The look in his eyes was foreign, hard and unforgiving – nothing at all like the warmth and love she normally saw there. Stepping out of his arms, she retreated a few steps. “I love you.”

  He opened his mouth as if he was going to say something, but in the end he just shook his head and walked from the hall. Tove watched him go, feeling the tears pooling in her eyes and trembling on her lashes. She understood why he couldn’t stay. It didn’t make the hurt any less, though. Wiping the tears from her eyes, she promised herself they’d be the last she would cry for the life she could have had with Soren.

  Floki Dalgaard was her future …

  Her bleak, dark future.

  *

  At dawn, Tove was awakened and taken to the bath-house. There, one of her mother’s oldest friends informed her of her duties as a wife, gave her advice on the best way to live with a man and other religious observances she had to make as a married woman. She was stripped of all her old clothing, and the kransen – a gilt circlet used as decoration on her loose hair – was removed. Symbolically, this was the biggest change. Tove had walked into the bath-house as a maiden, and when she walked out, she was ready to become a woman.

  By mid-morning, the sun had still refused to come out from behind the clouds. Perhaps the gods were reflecting her mood onto Midgard. Nobody else seemed to notice it though. All around her, the villagers were excited. Marriages called for great celebrations and great celebrations called for great feasts. Food was being prepared and animals that had been slaughtered the previous day were already roasting on fires. Her father had chosen to forego the week-long celebration of her marriage – a small consolation to her, she felt.

  “Let’s get you dressed,” someone said behind her. Tove drew in one more breath of air and turned to see Aslaug standing there. The girl was perhaps only two years younger than her, and beautiful in her own way. She had also been Tove’s personal servant for the past four years. She followed her into her sleeping area, stopping just inside the room. Her father was waiting for her there, sitting on the edge of her bed. His expression was solemn and in his lap was a rectangular wooden box.

  “What’s that, father?” she asked, approaching him slowly.

  Halvdan’s fingers caressed the carving in the lid lovingly, a small smile appearing on his lips. “This was the dress your mother wore on our wedding day.” He looked at her. “I think she would want you to wear it.” Placing the box onto the bed, he stood up and approached her. Kissing her forehead, he said, “I’ll leave you with Aslaug to get ready.”

  Aslaug stepped close to Tove and started to undress her, stripping away the ankle-length woolen dress and the linen dress underneath it.

  “Are you excited?” Aslaug asked.

  “No,” Tove answered, surprising herself with her honesty.

  “It is a good match.”

  She looked at the girl. “For who?” she asked acidly.

  Her curt reply left Aslaug with nothing more to say. When Tove was in her mother’s dress, a brooch was attached at her throat before the girl started brushing out Tove’s long hair. After today, she would never be able to wear it loose and uncovered. It was just another reminder of her fate.

  After Tove left her room, she was escorted to the grove where the ceremony was to take place. A sow was sacrificed to Freyja to ask for her blessings for fertility, and then she got her first good look at the man who was to be her husband.

  Floki was shorter than her by a good few inches. She would have to stoop to kiss the fool. He was losing his hair despite only having seen five more summers than her. All his features seemed too small for his long face, and his eyes were cruel. But all of those things she could ignore. The thing that held her attention more was the cloak of dark pink and dark green – two colors she associated with negativity and resentment – hovering over his head. Once more her stomach clenched into a tight knot.

  The entire ceremony was a blur after that. She recalled exchanging swords and rings, but could not remember saying the vows. The next thing she knew they were feasting in the great hall at her home. She ate the food and drank the wine but she did not taste a thing. More than once, Floki leaned over, placing his hand high on her thigh and whispering in her ear, “Are you not having fun, wife?”

  She said nothing. She just watched the way his aura flared with irritation.

  Unable to remain beside Floki any longer, she left the table and went to speak with some of her father’s supporters, catching part of their conversation about the upcoming harvest of their barley crop.

  “There won’t be enough to see us through,” one of the men said. “The summer was too hot and we planted too late.”

  Another said, “But surely Dalgaard will be willing to trade with us now.”

  “I will ensure Floki’s father trades with you,” she told the men with a warm smile.

  “Mistress?” Aslaug said softly.

  Tove apologized to the men and turned her attention t
o her servant. “Yes?”

  “It’s almost time. I’m going to prepare your bed with the linens from your dowry. When I’m done, I will come and collect you.”

  Tove nodded to the servant girl and tried to focus on the conversation again, but all she could think about was what was to come. Soon she would have to lie with her husband for the first time, and the thought was terrifying.

  She glanced in the direction of the long table up in front of the dais. Her father was whispering something to his advisor while Floki’s father seemed to be watching everyone in the room. Her gaze settled on her husband. She expected him to be watching her, but his attention was on Aslaug as she left the hall. His aura shifted colors. After a beat, he stood up and followed her out.

  “Oh, no,” Tove whispered. Without excusing herself from the conversation, she hurried after them both, but an older man she had never seen before stopped her.

  “Congratulations, Tove, on this special day,” he said. She gave him a small smile, and started to step past him when he added, “You know, I was at your parents’ wedding too. Now that was a feast to remember.”

  “Thank you, sir. But you must excuse me.” She walked away without waiting for his reply and slipped into the hallway at the back of the house. Just outside her bedchamber, she was brought to a dead stop. Aslaug’s screams made all the hair on the back of Tove’s neck stand on end. Pushing aside the skins which had been hung for privacy, she stepped into the room.

  Floki had Aslaug pinned against the mattress, her skirts up around her waist, the bodice of her dress ripped down the middle so her breasts were exposed. He slapped her hard across the face before entering her body forcefully. Aslaug screamed again, and Tove could see blood where they were joined.

  “Please,” Aslaug begged softly, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Don’t.”

  “Shut your mouth. They’ll hear you.”

  “I already heard you,” Tove said, finally finding her voice.

  Aslaug’s eyes widened when she saw Tove. “Mistress, I—”

  “She begged me to take her,” Floki spat, pulling Aslaug up from the bed and holding her in front of him like a shield. Aslaug was shaking, holding the torn dress to her body. This man was even more of a coward than Tove had first thought. “She’s your servant, which means she’s also mine now.”

  “It doesn’t work that way, Floki.” She took a step closer, looking the girl in the eye. “Aslaug, come to me.”

  Floki’s grip tightened, causing Aslaug to cry out in pain. “No. She stays here with me.”

  Tove watched his aura flare again. His desperation was scrubbing out his lust. “Let her go, Floki, and I won’t mention your indiscretion to my father.”

  “Nobody will be talking about this to anybody,” he replied, suddenly pulling out a knife and bringing it to Aslaug’s throat.

  “No!” Tove cried, throwing out her hand to try and stop him, but she was too late. He ran the blade across Aslaug’s throat like she was a sacrificial goat. The wound gaped, and blood welled. He pushed Aslaug aside as she dropped to the ground, gasping for breath. “No,” Tove whispered, watching her servant’s eyes go dull. She refocused on Floki, the ember of her anger flaring to life.

  The bastard was smiling at her. “I’ll tell everyone that she was trying to steal from me.”

  “Why?” she asked. “Why didn’t you just let her go?”

  “Because she was my property, just like you are my property, and I can do what I like with it.” He stalked toward her, gripping her upper arm and pulling her close. She could smell the ale on his breath, she could see his malice cloaking his shoulders. “Turn around and bend over,” he said.

  “Excuse me?”

  He held the knife to her throat. “I am your husband. Do as I command.”

  He meant to take her now, like this? Aslaug’s body was not yet cold, yet like a pig in rut, he wanted to mount her. Even though she wanted to fight back now, she had learned that biding your time for a more advantageous position was sometimes better. Appearing to yield to his will, she turned toward the bed.

  Floki placed the knife on the edge of the mattress and gripped her hips from behind. “See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” he said into her ear.

  In one swift motion, she scooped up the dagger and spun around to face him. She had caught him by surprise, but his shock soon turned to conceit. He actually laughed at her.

  “Knives are not meant for the hands of noble-born girls,” he said, chastising her. “Give it to me.”

  “Never,” she spat.

  Floki’s rage crackled, filling the air with clouded red. He lunged at her, trying to drive her onto the bed. She couldn’t move in time, landing heavily with him on top. One hand cinched shut around her wrist, his other hand trying hard to remove the dagger. She always slipped out of the way though; the gods were on her side. She swiped at him, drawing first blood on his upper arm. He struck her, his fist landing on her cheek. Thrown to one side, pain exploded through the side of her face, dazing her for a moment. Floki tried wrenching the knife free, but she knew if she was disarmed, he would take her by force.

  Drawing on her inner strength, Tove pierced his belly with the knife, feeling his body yield to the sharp blade. Floki started to scream, but before the sound could build, she threw her hand over his mouth, stifling it. He fell onto his side, his hands clutching at the wound. Blood streamed from between his fingers, dripping onto the floor. Getting to her feet, she looked down at him.

  “You will never touch me again.” Her words were drawn out by her rage. She wanted him to know that she wasn’t going to let him hurt her, nor any other woman again.

  He looked up at her, hatred reflected both in his eyes and in the colors forming around his head and shoulders. “You have started a war you have no hope of winning.”

  That may be. Her father didn’t have half the number of able-bodied warriors that his father did. But he did have her. She would die for her father and to die in battle was the most honorable way. Crouching beside Floki, Tove moved his hands out of the way. He was too weak to fight her, moaning when more blood spewed from his stomach.

  “I will make you pay for this,” he spat weakly. Despite his fatal injury, despite the clear disadvantage, he was still defiant until the end. She ignored his idle threats though. She’d been willing to marry to him – for her father, for her sense of duty, for the survival and prosperity of her father’s rule. But she was not willing to allow Floki to rape her servant and then rape her. She could see now what kind of a man he was, and she would not condemn herself to that life, no matter the consequences.

  Taking her dagger, she slid it into the wound and twisted. Floki ground his teeth together, his nostrils flaring as pain swept through him. Pulling the knife out, she held it against his throat.

  “You are a pig, and you will die like a pig,” she told him, running the blade across his throat. Blood flowed like a river down his chest, and each pump of his heart only made the blood gush faster. Tove watched the life leak from his eyes, feeling nothing but satisfaction.

  When his chest had stopped pumping up and down, she got to her feet. She stumbled out into the hall with the dagger still in her hand. Blood covered her dress, chest, arms and legs. Nobody seemed to notice her arrival though. They were still drinking and eating, enjoying the music. Tove looked around, searching for her father.

  She started walking through the throng of revelers. People stopped what they were doing when they saw her, a hush falling over the room with every step she took. When she was finally in front of her father, it took him a moment to notice her.

  “Tove?” He stood up from his chair, his eyes taking in the blood, the dagger, the hard glint of satisfaction and determination in her eye. “Are you hurt?” She shook her head. “Your eye …”

  She touched her left eye, feeling the swelling. She shrugged slightly.

  “What of Floki?” Vadik Dalgaard, Floki’s father, asked.

  Tove looked him in the
eye. She would not back down from this. “He is dead.”

  Vadik stood up, shoving the table away as he did. Food and mead fell to the floor. The dogs ran in and started eating what had fallen before being chased away by servants.

  “Who killed him?” It was a demand from a chieftain, from a man who rarely didn’t get what he wanted.

  Raising her chin a fraction, she said, “I did.” Her voice rang around the room.

  The noise in the room returned, except it wasn’t joyful anymore. Anger polluted the air, shouts of outrage coming from the Dalgaard camp. Vadik stalked toward Tove, taking her by the throat and lifting her off the ground. The dagger dropped from her hand. Her fingers scrambled to loosen his grip.

  “You killed my son,” Vadik snarled, his aura exploding with black striations. He started walking her backwards, toward the central hearth. She could feel the heat intensify with every step. With the air slowly being squeezed from her body, her vision started to darken. She gasped, desperately trying to suck in another breath. She could feel her eyes staring to bulge, the pressure of her blood forcing them out.

  Vadik grunted right before blood started to drip from the corner of his mouth. Tove looked down to see the tip of a spear sticking out from under his ribs. Over his shoulder, she saw her father. His mouth was a twisted grimace, his eyes fierce. Vadik’s fingers finally loosened from around her throat. Her feet hit the ground and she sucked in a deep breath, feeling her lungs burn. Vadik dropped to his knees, his momentum carrying him forward. Tove stepped out of the way, seeing her father’s enemy fall headfirst into the open flames.

  The smell of burning flesh was instant and choking.

  She looked back at her father and nodded. All of that happened within a split second, because the next thing she knew, swords were being drawn and spears were made ready. Vadik had brought a third of his warriors with him to the wedding; Halvdan only had a dozen. The men crowded around Tove and her father, protecting their chieftain and his only living child.